


Much Akin to Fire

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chara Is Their Own Warning, Explicit Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, POV Chara, Pre-Fall, Ritualistic Self Harm, inaccurate withcraft, witchcraft as per 10 minutes of googling, yer a wizard chara
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-10-31 07:35:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10894701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: The fact that there is something out there, something that everyone has chosen to forget, much like your mother will inevitably choose to forget you… it’s enticing. With only one book in your arsenal, and no other resources available, you could reinvent the concept of SOUL magic at it’s core.





	1. Don't close your eyes.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HybridKylin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HybridKylin/gifts).



> As a sort of general preclude to this, please keep in mind that a lot of this information is scraped from a variety of sources; several references were used for the base of inspiration, before I allowed the canon material to twist it. It is in no way intended to be an accurate interpretation of modern Paganism or witchcraft in general. 
> 
> For Lint, who really only has themself to blame for giving me this idea in the first place. About time I wrote something for you. <3

* * *

**But all the magic I have known,**

**I’ve had to make myself.**

* * *

 

When you’re six, you’re woken up before the dawn by rough, anxious hands. Your mother puts on your boots as your hazy mind fumbles to fit your fingers through the sleeves of your sweater. Before you’ve really had time to think about saying a word, you’re hurrying through the streets; your wrist held in a tight grip, as if your mother is worried you’ll take a step away from her side.

Except you’re six, and up until that night, your mother has been your world. Perhaps not the kindest, nor the most patient, but your world all the same. She does not offer you hugs nor tuck you in; you are not hers to coddle, she tells you. You belong to the earth, and the earth will decide your comforts. It’s not something most mothers tell their children.

What surprises you initially is how many other people are awake, that morning.Maybe the world is often up before the sun, and you’ve never known as such from beyond the borders of the tiny garden in your backyard. Trying not to fall asleep as your mother tells you of the benefits that the transitioning hours offer to spells that are not meant for personal gain, or intended for divination into the future. Everyone mills about the square; around the circular garden in the centre, and your first, vivid memory of that morning is the great wooden platform that has overtaken the flowerbed almost completely, and your own upset at seeing the crushed, golden petals and snapped stems around the bottom of the stairs.

“They’re hurting the flowers,” You whine plaintively, and your mother is quick to hush you. The two of you hasten across the somewhat crowded space; off to the side where no one will notice you, and where your view of the stage is unhindered. A lone bench becomes a perch for you to sit on, the top of your head almost brushing your mother's nose.

She rests a hand on your back to brace you, even though you don’t squirm. As if you would. She also hasn’t explained, and you understand that to an extent; understand that if she hasn’t said as much already, your questions won’t be welcomed. So you stay quiet, barely awake, cold, and a little bored. Most of the town mingles in the space around you.

Most of the town. You don’t really pick up on it, that morning, but in years to come you look back with a grim recognition of just how few children were there that morning, the few you remember as anything more than a child sized phantom still your elder by at least a few years. The stage, when your unsettled gaze rests upon it, is ugly in the grey smudge of dawn before the sun. It smells terrible, like one of the trading vans that comes from the coast. Like fish oil and whale blubber and smoked fish that could last for months, if it was stored right.

Dead centre of what you had already decided was an ugly monolith to some dark, horrible magic was a thick pole, towering up into the sky. Something about it unsettles you; moreso, with the piles of kindling bunched up against its sides. It seems ridiculous to you, that everyone would be out of bed at this hour to see it. An ugly sort of magic, not helpful or poignant or pretty. Within five minutes you go from bored to simply wanting to be away- and yet you stay still, your mother’s hand resting on the small of your back.

Of the actual proceedings, you remember very little. It’s still very dark by the time they begin, the town’s mayor reading out the decree as two large figures haul a much frailer one up the steps behind him. You don’t recognize any of them; you especially don’t recognize the one in the middle, with a bag over his head to obscure his vision, or perhaps to obscure your own. You want to think of him as someone nondescript; an unknown, who you had never known, and never will- except a few days was all it took to notice the absence of the kindly old man down the end of your street, the one who liked to offer all the kids snap peas from his garden.

The words the mayor says as that man is tied to the stake are ones repeated to you for years to come, until you can quote them under your breath without thinking. That morning, the one word that sticks out to you (the only one you can hear in his voice, or what you think is his voice; a hissing accusation, dripping with venom and shame)- _witchcraft_.

When they drop torches onto the stage, the intention is not for only the kindling to light. The entire platform has been liberally soaked, that insidious tang of fish an accelerant that catches upon every inch of it’s surface, quickly reaching the man’s bare feet. His trouser legs catch next, red licking it’s way upwards, up a body that twitches and writhes where it’s been tied, and you can hear, and will always be able to hear, the muffled, anguished screams as your mother reached up to grip your chin.

You will always remember the slightly bitter tang of grapes on her breath, cutting through the scent of smoke and burning flesh, as she told you quietly to not close your eyes.

When you’re six, and petrified, your eyes blur with tears that trail down your cheeks as you do what you’re told. You watch a man burn alive; one who was just a little too excited to offer the kids of the neighborhood some of his snap peas, and had grown them out of season, with a tiny bit of magic to help them out. The most vivid image that stays in your mind, in the end, is the flowers; innocents caught by the flame, burned away and leaving a vicious black mark on the town, for months to come.

 

* * *

 

You wake from nightmares of the memory more often than not; by the time you’re ten, it’s simply a staple. It’s only once you’re that little bit older that the figure of the man is replaced by yourself, and your morning ritual consists of sneaking into the kitchen, pocketing the herbs and spices required to refresh the simple protection charm you keep tucked away in your boot. It’s not something you need to recreate every day; but to have enough to recreate it at all, even once a month, without your mother noticing that you’ve taken anything at all…

It’s a constant ritual. And perhaps it simply makes the magic all the stronger, when the lengths you’ve gone to procure the ingredients place you but a hair’s breadth away from the soundest of beatings, and a lengthy lapse of time without food. Bravery in the face of consequences, in order to defend yourself from much worse fates.

That much is enough to calm the worst of your shakes. By the time you begin to stoke the fire in the kitchen, the sweat on your skin as cooled, damp clothes sticking to your back and leaving you gritting your teeth as you shake for entirely different reasons. Too early for the sun to be up; too early for visitors, by all accounts, and you reach into the pantry and flick on the light overhead, just so you can actually see what you’re doing. Hooking the kettle up on the hanger above the fire, you swing it in, and allow it the time it needs to boil as you fish the tiny camping stove out of the cupboard, clumsy fingers breaking two matches before you get it to light at all.

Somewhere out there, there are people who switch the lights on in their homes without fear. Who tread on tiled floors through the kitchen, past the oven and the sink. Flick on their electric kettles and dig through the fridge for leftovers; even some people in this town would do as much, with homes much more private than your own. This can’t even be considered a home; just the illusion of one, which is the illusion of one from a time period long since past, which is the illusion of a common, normal, magic-free household.

Your mother says there’s benefits for people like you, to live in a remote, historic town at the base of an ancient mountain. Sometimes you think you’d be happy to give up on magic altogether, if it meant living in a big city, where the idea of being burned at the stake was about as laughable as magic itself.

Besides... there’s a part of you, soft and inconsistent, but always there on your worst days, that wonders if perhaps what you’re doing is wrong, if you have to hide it from the world. That something in you is invariably broken, that to be caught doing what you’ve been told is in your nature is to be put to death.

“Chara.” Then your mother appears in the doorway, and you put such thoughts aside. Straightening, you smile up at her; something carefully calculated as to ensure that the dimple in your cheek is prominent. A genuine smile. A proper smile. You must always smile properly, when you are glad to see someone. When you wish them well.

“Bright blessings, mother. I started the tea-”

“The light is on.” She tells you softly; a mistake you hasten to rectify, before you allow yourself even the smallest of replies.

“I’m sorry.” You could explain yourself a little more; justified in that the town’s opening hours are at least another hour away, that electricity isn’t restricted when it’s dark, except an excuse is an excuse, and you know better than to muddy your remorse with selfish notions. She continues to watch you, still, and you keep your head bowed, waiting.

“...Forget the tea. Sit.” You’re quick to comply. The small space you call home has but one, large room; the heat from the fire enough to reach you even as you sit on one of two wooden stools before the small table. Most of your meals are made and eaten here, though you’ve hardly had the time to gather such things, this morning. Your mother takes the seat opposite you, and you keep your head high under her scrutinizing gaze- a small, curdling sense of jealousy, at the brown irises sweeping over you.

Some days, you wish you’d never learned about magic at all. Most days, you wish you’d taken after your mother in appearance, just a little more.

You hardly dare to breathe, even when she finally speaks. “It’s your birthday, tomorrow.”

“Yes, mother.”

“You’re old enough now to understand that tomorrow leaves you vulnerable to a great many things.” At this, you find yourself lightly chewing the inside of your cheek. Tomorrow you will be vulnerable; tonight, you will record any dreams you may have; prophecies for your future. People will wish you well on your day, and not realize the power that blessing has. You know. “And that is why I felt it appropriate to gift you early.”

“...For my birthday?”

“For your future.” She corrects, almost patiently. It’s times like these you feel the most disconnected; a pupil in front of a teacher, who places a clothed item on the table before you. There’s no real sentiment behind it, aside from whatever she’s chosen to give it. Not a gift of love; just a gift of practicality, like buying you a new set of shoes when the soles of your old ones have worn through.

Still… with a cautious glance, you raise your hands to receive it, unfolding the cloth with as much care as you can manage.

The sight of the blade steals the breath from your lungs. It’s ornate; a swirling texture of darkened gray a living pattern within the tempered steel. You already know the length of it; know the brown, waxed hilt and the feel of it in your grip. Your town is a tourist trap, with shops that provide oddities fitting to the time period in which it’s set. This blade wasn’t made by the local smithy; imported and hoisted into a glass frame, something to press your nose up against whenever your mother took you shopping- and utterly perfect.

“Your athame,” Your mother explains; again, when you need no explanation. The careful manner in which it was wrapped makes the moment that the hilt fits into your palm all the more meaningful; you imagine that no one else has touched it, since the day you eagerly accepted the offer to hold it in the market, till now. It’s just yours.

The term Damascus steel means little to you aside from an inflated price tag. You have to believe that your mother didn’t haggle, which means that- little expense was spared. And yet you look beyond it to the hilt of your mother’s own knife, belted at her waist, and feel the sting of understanding that comes from a lack of inheritance.

Your athame, and only ever yours. It’s a gift beyond your wildest imagining, and yet, part of you feels like another tether between you and your mother has been cut through. You’ll never share in whatever powers she’s given her own tools; you belong to the earth.

And the earth will decide your comforts.

“Thank you.” Your response is as warm as you can make it. Despite the sting, you hold your knife steady, collecting up the sheath that accompanies it. If it’s only yours, you’ll make something beautiful out of it. Given time...just a little time, and she’d wish that she’d seen you in a different light. Someone important enough to share more than just a house with, and a maternal obligation.

“The sheath is meant to rest across the small of your back; keep in mind that most would consider it inappropriate for someone of your age to carry a weapon.” You nod attentively, though again, you wonder if the wisdom of your mother’s words isn’t often just common sense. “I’ll show you how to fit it prior to school; for now, there is one other thing you must learn.”

She unsheathes her own blade, reversing the grip and showing you the polished, black surface; wood, much like your own, yet so much darker. Stained over years of use. Then she shows you her other hand, and the thick scar across the middle of it. You’re less afraid of the visual than, perhaps, you should be.

“Whilst the handle darkens with use, it is also a part of you. A living piece which requires your blood as much as the rest of your body. Until the handle is black, you will provide.”

You’re less afraid of her words than, perhaps, you should be. But then, it’s magic. And there are so many variations that you’ve yet to see; so many that you’ve already seen. If you lived elsewhere, in a community rich with people of greater understanding, maybe your own learning wouldn’t be so muddled.

But you don’t, and neither does your mother. So when she tells you she’ll get breakfast ready, you quietly excuse yourself to your room, and you know that she expects you to do precisely what you’re intending to.

Sitting at the foot of your bed, you roll up your sleeve, before holding your athame above your head. The sun may still not be up, but you imagine that it glimmers, nonetheless. You’ve been told that your athame is an extension of yourself; _meant_ to be, at least. The weight of it sits so perfectly; but you look at the divine craftsmanship resting in your pale fingers, and you wonder if you’ll ever really be capable of comparing. Even your knife is of a better make than you.

No wonder your mother doesn’t want to connect her own work to you.

“We’ll prove her wrong.” You tell it quietly, and the first time it cuts through your skin, you hardly feel it at all.

 

* * *

 

Your dreams aren’t really prophetic, you don’t think. Your eleventh birthday winds up being entirely uneventful, despite a constant sense that someone was going to curse you the entire day. Even your dreams the night before are nothing, really, and your mother seems entirely too disappointed when all you have to describe to her is the sound of howling wind in your ears; a blackness that went on for forever. You remember feeling not afraid, but...determined. Almost sick from the overwhelming sense of doing what is right. You don’t tell her this, but part of you feels like that thick, oppressive blackness is your fault.

And despite those bleak surroundings, you also don’t feel alone. That’s the most unsettling aspect of all.

The only comfort is the new pressure of your blade across the small of your back; which becomes the norm, as the year progresses. You adjust to sitting in chairs with the sheath and hilt sticking into your back, and the rigorous, daily assessments of your mother that ensure the knife is truly concealed. Baggier clothes become a staple. Part of you feels like it’s breathing easier, now that your clothes don’t pinch and cling to your body quite so much. Looking in the mirror is easier when the only thing that meets your eyes is a pale, pinched face, and a body indistinguishable beneath folds of cloth.

You’re old enough now to start learning more than just the simple spells that rely on memorizing both the materials needed and intent, graduating from finding truths and quelling anger to spending the majority of your time reading thick tomes your mother has kept hidden beneath the floorboards. Most of your evenings are spent squinting under candlelight, mulling over the large torches you’ve seen the security guards use as they calmly survey the streets at night; if only you had one, this would be so much easier.

One of the books you get your hands on, when your mother is in bed, and you’re simply looking to continue your studies ahead of the strict (and frustratingly slow) regime she’s imposed upon you...you’re almost certain you weren’t supposed to find.

_The Properties of SOULs._

You definitely weren’t supposed to find. If history has taught you anything, it was this magic in particular that caused witches to be stamped out for hundreds of years; the fear of the living at a power that could warp a person beyond recognition, held in the same regard as necromancy. With the book flat against the floor, you place your candle as close as you dare, skimming the first pages with a growing fascination.

The human SOUL is the culmination of a human’s being. It goes without saying that the properties of a spell in which the human SOUL takes part are capable of effects long since thought beyond the bare scapes of the human imagination. A magic derived from those whom magic is the essence of their being, it…

...protection beyond the metaphysical.

True affinity with one’s property and self.

You weren’t supposed to find this. Before your mother wakes, you’re sure to put the book back in it’s place; exactly in it’s place, with no indication that you’d touched it at all. It’s all you can think about, for the rest of the day.

So of course, you steal out of bed to read it the next night.

And the night after that.

If anything, the idea that it’s taboo appeals because you, in all your...everything, are taboo already. You could learn to grow plants or divine the future; your interests lay in those fields as well, so you will. The fact that there is something out there, something that everyone has chosen to forget, much like your mother will inevitably choose to forget you… it’s enticing. With only one book in your arsenal, and no other resources available, you could reinvent the concept of SOUL magic at it’s core.

Just because it doesn’t belong anywhere doesn’t mean it’s not natural, not right. You- it belongs to the earth, and the earth will decide it’s comforts.

Most of the concepts presented are frustratingly complex. It’s not a book intended for a novice, or a singular person at all. Mystical barriers that could seal an area for an eternity- if you had seven, powerful SOULs to conjure it. The ability to bring people back from the brink of death, or from the arms of death itself; to summon columns of fire, to lay waste to an area with unyielding floods and vicious droughts.

There’s an equal amount of defensive and offensive magic, but it’s all beyond you. All written in a manner that assumes the reader understands the simple basics, at least, and you simply don’t. You have to start smaller, and hope, and pray, that you get it right.

You start on a day when your mother is away at the market, when the sun reaches it’s peak. You want the strength to make it work; you want no interruptions. Laying your knife in a basic chalk circle, you place a candle at each of the four points- and that’s where you hit your first snag.

The SOUL is the very culmination of your being, and the book speaks with instructions that make it seem like something to be summoned. Not just something metaphysical, but something you can hold in the palm of your hand.

How do you make that a reality?

Frowning, you stare down at your simple cast, increasingly dissatisfied. You’re certain that what you’re attempting must be one of the most basic of concepts, but this doesn’t feel like enough.

The book under the floorboards is taunting you. Advanced magic that skips what must be the most basic of learnings. What idiot can’t summon their SOUL?

You try focusing on the four points of your circle. Nothing. You focus on the North only; you belong to the earth, and the earth will provide your comforts. It provides nothing right now. East, West, South- you attempt each in turn, and nothing. You have no idea what it is you’re trying to do.

As frustrated as you are, you’re still mindful to clean up your mess before your mother returns. For the rest of the afternoon, you keep your sullen sense of failure to yourself.

There has to be a way.

What you can say for certain is that you have no basic intuition, on how this is supposed to work. Which you suppose simply means that SOUL magic isn’t something that simply comes naturally to humans. There, and achievable; but through a thorough understanding, not just willing it into being. You need some kind of guidance; something that tells you what you’re attempting is even achievable, with as little information as you have.

Excusing yourself early, you hide in your room after dinner, sitting on the floor in the dark. You need to know, first and foremost...that you can do this. You want to believe you can. But you need more than that.

The simplest answer is the candle in front of you. Striking a match, you light the wick and wait, hardly daring to breath. Hardly daring to blink, lest you miss even the slightest hint of what is to come.

It’s difficult to see the smoke that comes from the initial flame, and you take that to mean the smoke itself is black, initially. Not the worst of signs; not surprising to note that there’s some negative energy behind your desire. Most of what you do is wrong. Magic, you’ve come to accept, is inherently wrong. It’s little wonder that SOUL magic would illicit such a response.

Leaning closer, you focus on your question. _I need to know that I can do this._ The flame that catches the wick is strong, but the smoke… drifts away from you, towards the right. And just like that, you have your answer, simple as it may be.

You _can_ do this, but if you do, you’re going to have to rely on yourself.

Slowly, you come to rest on your haunches, staring at the flickering light as it dances across the far wall, but not really seeing it. You hear your mother’s footsteps in the den, the quiet scratch her door makes, the edge catching across the loose floorboard as she retires for the night. She’s not going to help you, with this. If she caught even the slightest hint of what you were up to-

Better not to consider that at all.

There are very few aspects of your home that could be considered modern. The bathroom is something from the seventies, you think; the door locked throughout the day, hiding the shower and toilet that you have thanked the earth for more than once, well aware that some in town share the communal baths with only a toilet installed in their home. The other is the windows; carefully crafted and maintained so they can be hidden behind curtains and tapestries during the day. The hinges are well cared for; it’s because of this that you can open your own window without any fear, feeling the sting of cold on your cheeks as you lean over the sill and grasp somewhat blindly at the flowerbed.

Clawing at the soil, you’re not satisfied until there’s enough loose dirt in your palm that you can’t quite hold it all, scooping your prize up against your chest, quietly making your way to the lone candle, in the centre of the room.

There’s plenty of methods available to you, in order to divine your next steps. Abocomancy happens to be something you’re good at; something your mother has praised you on, at least once. You’ll never let that go. If it is a practice you are strong in, then it is the best next step.

“In my future, I will summon my SOUL.” You whisper to the candle, before the flame is smothered by the dirt that falls from your hand.

You lose the rest of the night to interpreting the patterns that spill across your bedroom floor, undeterred by the fog that coats your mind come morning. One more sleepless night amidst a lifetime of sleepless nights is nothing to cry about.

It is imperative that you achieve your goals.

 

* * *

 


	2. Anticipation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The roles have finally been reversed.

* * *

**How dreadful… to be caught up in a game, and have no idea of the rules.**

* * *

 

There is a word that captures your attention when rereading The Properties of SOULs. Dead languages have their place, and most often, that place is within the tomes, already thick with old English that makes deciphering the meaning of even the most straightforward of sentences difficult. Tenax, the text says, over and over and over. Tenax.

It’s probably Latin. You suspect it’s Latin, and the meaning eludes you entirely. You could ask your mother, however, she’d want to know which text it had come from. You have no access to a library, or a computer.

Tenax, says the text over and over, and you’re certain it’s the key to how to summon your SOUL. It’s mentioned in a variety of ways; as both something focused internally throughout the duration of a casting, and something that can manipulate the external. A will, of some kind. An emotion? A sense.

You don’t know. Part of you wants to scream, when the answer is so close- and untranslatable. It would be so easy to give up; from the frustration, the constant nights without sleep, the increasing comments from your mother that your energy is becoming more and more sour.

All of those are reasons why you shouldn’t give up, either. Having to wait until your mother is out of the house is almost unbearable, but it’s easier come summer, once school is out and you’re home more than she is. You don’t have friends you want to go play with, and what time you do need to waste is spent in the yard, tending to the plants that you’ve been caring for since you were little.

It is also a perfect place to continue trying; surrounded by life that’s been cultivated by your own hands. One of the biggest revelations you’d made, attempting to divine your future through the patterns and trails the dirt had made on your bedroom floor, was that you needed to look South.

You’re making the most of that. You try when the sun is high in the sky; surrounded by the greenery you’ve cultivated. Seated in a circle of small stones, you could simply be working on anything, if your mother was to catch you out. Just a circle of protection, or a focus to bring life to the garden. Creating an innocent image just in case works for you; all the better, when it brings forth the element that you need it to.

The only other thing you have to go off, aside from vague texts and the hope that concentrating your will to the South will assist you, is the dream you had on the eve of your birthday. The gaping void, that sensation of not being alone. There was something else there, too. A sense of- justice. Of doing the right thing. Being unfaltering in your actions.

You’ve felt like that before.

And if you focus on that; focus on the idea that you _will_ summon your SOUL; because you can. Because you have to. Then things finally start to feel...different.

Like the world is slightly sharper than it had been a moment ago.

It’s meditative, you think. Like a lot of things, when you’re just beginning, all of your focus needs to go there. To that undeniable feeling of- capability, of refusing to stop. You sit in the garden every day for a month, and you think about that feeling. You lose sight of everything else. Because you can. And because you can, you have to.

The longer you do it, the more changes you take note of. When you forget everything, and that feeling builds in the pit of your stomach, the world seems darker- and then it is darker. Plants lose their color, the world around you gets smaller and smaller as more and more of your surroundings seemingly disappear. It unsettles you, the first time, and you lose it. Jolting back into the sunlight with a pounding heart and that vicious sense of failure licking at your spine.

There is nothing to be afraid of, you remind yourself. You are in control.

So you keep trying. It culminates to the point where the entire world is gone; the trees in the yard next to your own, the plants mere feet away. You can feel the soil against your bare feet, but it’s not really there. Just darkness; and even then, you know it isn’t the darkness from your dream. The feeling is entirely different; something you can define much more easily.

The tome has few illustrations, and most of them are focused upon the magic occurring, rather than the SOULs that cause it. What you can only assume is meant to be a SOUL is an almost cartoonish symbol, often the only thing with color on the page. Yellow, or green, or blue. Distinct, in a way. You’d assumed this was simply due to the book’s age, but now you think differently.

To manifest the very culmination of your being, you may as well be visiting another plane entirely. You haven’t decided what to call it; if it’s even mentioned in the scare material you have, you haven’t identified it. Anticipation is the feeling it brings, so you name the void appropriately. It is what it is. Anticipation.

Eventually you reach a point where you can bring yourself into that space much more quickly. The emptiness of it still bothers you, but you put that down to simply understanding that your body is really somewhere else; somewhere full of objects to be walked into; a lesson you learn very quickly, after an attempt to walk through said space has you tripping straight into your mother’s rose bush. Not a lesson you’ll be forgetting any time soon.

You can stay in that space for quite some time, now. Five minutes, an hour. There’s something lacking to it that again, you can’t really describe. Again, you put it down to understanding yourself to be in two spaces at once, both visually and audibly lost to an empty silence that isn’t in line with what you really know.

It doesn’t scare you. Unsettle you, at first, but fear?

You don’t allow it to scare you. The more time you spend there, the clearer it is that you’re the only being that exists in that space; there’s nothing else. A world unto it’s own, and you’re the only one who holds the key. Possibly, you’re the first to come there in a very long time. A point of motivation, that says you’re on the right track.

Even so, you still go back to school without having summoned your SOUL.

You hate school.

The learning aspect isn’t so bad. You enjoy english and history, and though maths doesn’t come naturally to you, it’s a challenge like any other, something with rules that can be understood eventually. You’re certain you would be content with the fact that you’ve spent over half your life learning, at this point; if not for the amount of people you’re surrounded by on a daily basis.

Not once have you ever forgotten what you saw, that morning. Every face that turns your way with some semblance of kindness is interposed with an ugly grimace, a baring of teeth and the scent of burning flesh. All of these people would turn against you in a heartbeat; you will never forget that.

You’ve made it clear that you have no interest in friends. For the most part, people leave you be; there’s always exceptions, however. Always someone who thinks it would be funny, to get a rise out of the quiet, pale kid who prefers to read at lunch instead of pointlessly running around after a ball.

One of them irritates you more than the others. In your mind, you’ve dubbed him Pug; because his face has a squashed in look, something bred into an animal which has caused plentiful issues. Your only remorse with the title is the insult it brings to canines as a whole.

The second week of school, Pug decides that you are his target of the month. Most bullies would need some sort of posse behind them, to act the way he does; people giving them attention, egging them on. He doesn’t require as much. You’re stalked across the playground no matter where you move, locker pillaged and books torn; books you get in trouble for. Books your mother has to pay for, which leads to even more problems. There’s no need to question if he’s behind it; Pug is happy to tell you, smug in the knowledge that you can do nothing in your defence.

The secret studies you’ve once again had to shift to pursuing in the night, in combination with your schoolwork, and the magic you’re expected to learn by your mother- you’re tired. There’s not enough hours in the day, and you need to sleep sometimes. Everything suffers for it; your capability to keep up at school, your ability to not make mistakes when your mother is nearby, and progress in SOUL magic becomes rapidly stagnant. Nothing in your life seems to be going anywhere; exhausted, all you want is to nap.

During lunch, you sneak out to the back of the school. The fenceline is barely up to the height of your chest, easy to climb over and escape into the back of the woods. You’re still close enough to hear the bell when it rings, but no one’s going to find you, out here. You’re safe.

Slumping down against the trunk of a tall oak, you exhale slowly, letting your eyes close. You could use this time to meditate; reach Anticipation, summon your SOUL. The idea sits with you like an idle fantasy, imagining your SOUL floating in front of you- indistinct and vibrant.

Time passes, from there. Five minutes, ten- more. You’re not paying attention, breathing slowly evening out as you listen to the sounds of childish activity in the distance, outside of the small bastion you’ve found in the woods. You can feel the gentle pressure of your knife against your back, and the soft bump of the protection charm you’d cast against the side of your foot. Possibly, it’s the most peaceful moment you’ve had since school came back.

Of course, you should have expected it would get interrupted. What you aren’t expecting is the sudden, sharp pain in your forehead, jolting upright as a small stone falls into your lap. Your hand moves up to your head, first and foremost, fingers feeling across broken skin and coming away red.

“Hey, _Chara,_ ” The way Pug says your name is positively infuriating; the pronunciation completely off. You’ve been in the same class your entire lives, so it’s intentional. Insult on top of injury. “Too cool to hang out with everyone else?”

“I felt a refreshing change of scene was in order,” You retort immediately. You should not be allowing him to get a rise from you, not at all. You are anyway. “Unfortunately, stupidity appears to be everywhere.”

“Takes one to know one.” He says, looking so very triumphant. Like he’s given you the best comeback in history, rather than something dry and overdone. What a _child._ “You’re supposed to play during break, _Chara._ I got a good game for us.”

“I’m not interested.” Still, you’re on your feet. Watching with growing trepidation as Pug tosses another rock up into the air; up and down in short bounces. It’s much larger than the first. Something that size isn’t just going to leave a cut. The only thing your response gains is an even wider smile; something evil, something horrible. He may be the same age as you; just a normal human, but he’s also a monster.

“Let’s play, _can Chara get to the teacher before I hit them again_?” Pug practically sings the words, arm winding back for the throw. You need to duck away, run. You need to react.

You hate him so much. You hate humans so much; you hate that you have to be so scared of them and so _jealous_ , that they’re all normal. That the worst thing that could happen is being chased around with a rock. You look at his face, and you don’t see another expression, interlaced across the one he wears now. You can smell the smoke, and he looks gleeful at the potential for your demise.

In that moment of fury, you feel your gut wrench, and the entire world goes black. Anticipation.

Pug is there too. A pale ghost; eerily white from head to toe; his hair, his skin, his clothes. Like chalk, except smooth; not like chalk. The entire world has disappeared around you both, taking every color with it.

He notices it too. The smile slips as he stumbles backwards, rock falling from his hand and disappearing out of sight. It’s deathly quiet.

You have to ACT.

The concept of ACTing, it seems, does not work in this plane as it does in the world you know. What options there are feel limited; constrained. A set route of paths and motions that you have the freedom to select at will, and yet free will seems- distorted. Basic.

There still options that you would take, branched out into generic choices that have significantly varied connotations. You could ACCUSE him, and pretend that you have no idea what’s happened. You could DECEIVE, and act in such a manner that lays no blame at all.

Or you could THREATEN.

You equip The Knife.

“Wh-where are we?” Pug doesn’t sound nearly as smug, anymore. He sounds, and looks, terrified. Shuffling back a step and almost falling over in the process. He looks at you, and your knife, and the terror grows. “What did you do?!”

THREATEN.

“I’ve brought you to hell, Pug.” He let’s out a stutter, cowering as you take a step forward. Another. You keep your head high, and pray that your feet don’t catch on a stone or root. You have no idea what you’re doing.

He doesn’t need to know that.

“I’ve brought you to hell, because you pissed me off. Still want to cast stones at me?” You smile. You can feel it stretching on your cheeks, wider and wider. Teeth bared, and the smell of burning flesh is overpowering. Except you’re not on that stake, wishing that death would come sooner. The roles have finally been reversed. “Go ahead. Cast the first stone.”

“Witch!” He shrieks, toppling over himself. He hits the ground and scrambles back as you advance on him, hands feeling across what you know is actually dirt, grass. Stones. “You’re a witch!”

Yes, you are. An unnatural, evil witch, who knows things no one should know. And you know that your smile is something wrong- isn’t that fitting? You’re unnatural. No one wants you; and, you decide in that moment, you don’t want anyone either.

If people are the price to pay to feel like this? So be it.

You’re just a few steps away from him, now. The lack of color is still jarring, but something is tying you both here. You feel like you have to win this- win something, whatever it is that may be. This fight. No one leaves until you win this fight. Pug is in the throes of panic, kicking out and striking wood with his fists, still not understanding that where they are hasn’t taken them away from where they were.

It’s your turn anyway. He has absolutely no power, here.

“I’m going to leave you here, Pug. I’m going to leave you here forever. Nobody wants nasty little boys like you. You’re scum, and now you’ll spend the rest of eternity thinking about that.” One more step, and you’d be standing on his feet. There’s a slight discoloration to his pants, and you want to laugh. Laugh at him for being such a snivelling coward. Did he wet himself?

Your pause is your undoing, as it turns out. You feel like your options sink away from you, just as Pug’s fingers catch on something. A rock comes into existence before your eyes, and in a heartbeat, you feel something other than power and triumph.

You feel like that one rock could destroy you absolutely.

“Get away from me!” Pug shrieks, and the stone is cast. So close, you barely have the time to dodge. You don’t, really. Your own terror swells unbidden, choking you as you hunker down, and you don’t know why, you don’t know, but you’re absolutely certain that you’re about to shatter out of existence entirely.

You feel, rather than see, the rock go past your shoulder. Skating off into the darkness as your head snaps up, and you glower down at this disgusting _human._ You are _never_ going to be afraid again. This is your world.

Darting forwards, you wrench him close by the collar of his shirt, holding your blade to his neck. He’s crying and sobbing and shrieking for you to let him go, but he knows, now. He knows, and you’re hardly about to let him go until you’re good and ready.

You could kill him, here. And no one would know.

“Shut up.” You say, and he whimpers and chokes on his own spit, eyes bulging up at you. His name has never been more fitting. “Do you want to live, Pug? Do you want me to let you go?”

“Yes, y-yes! Don’t hurt me!” He gasps out, and that’s his turn, right there. Your smile returns, now that you’re back in control.

“Then shut up. If I ask you a question, you’re going to nod or shake your head. Do you understand?” He nods, and something in you relaxes. Something in you knows what you’re doing; that in some way, he feels the same thing you do. A list of basic options, generic actions that could lead to multiple outcomes. And you’re stealing his choice out from under him. “Good boy. Now...if I let you go, are you going to bother me again?”

An immediate shake of his head. Your grip on his collar tightens.

“Are you going to _tell anyone_?”

There’s a slight pause, but still, his head shakes. Back and forth as tears track down his cheeks, and you’re not stupid. You know he’s lying.

You pretend he isn’t.

“That’s really good, Pug. Because if you did...I’d have to bring you back here. If you ever tell anyone, I promise- you’ll die before I do.” You smile down at him, and you pretend that smile is kind. The blank stare you get in turn tells you that you’ve failed. “Understand?”

He nods, breathing shallow. When you let him go, he simply slumps back down, staring up at the sky- or the lack of.

There’s a part of you that thinks you’ve gone too far. That part is so very easy to squash, however, when all you’ve really done is show him the exact same feeling you’ve had since you were six years old.

It’s their fault, not yours. He could’ve just left you alone.

You didn’t hurt him anyway. Exhaling slowly, you try to think of how to end this. You’ve won, and you know that; that knowledge alone doesn’t seem to be enough. You still feel tethered; incapable of leaving in the same way that you had so much difficulty staying, when you first attempted to come here. It’s not really Anticipation, anymore- with more than one person here, you choices are what decides whether you get to leave; both of you, or just the one.

There has to be an option for this, but you find yourself at a loss. It’s not an ACTion, and you look down at your knife, wondering if maybe, putting away your weapon is enough.

You put away The Knife.

Nothing happens.

Pug isn’t going anywhere; he doesn’t seem to be taking much note of you at all. You have a little time to think; an unpleasant twist in your stomach reminds you that you’re still at school, that the bell could have rung already; you wouldn’t have heard it. You really need to leave.

You could still kill him. The idea claws at your mind, a temptation that you rebuke entirely. You’re not going to do that. He deserved what you did, but you’re not a killer.

Right?

Where’s your divination tools now. Scoffing to yourself, you fold your arms, glowering down at Pug as if he’s the one with all the answers, instead of a scared child who just happened to bite off more than he could chew.

“I’m going to go, now,” You say finally, and he doesn’t budge an inch. You’re almost certain he doesn’t hear you at all. “You get to live, Pug. Is it worth it?”

You’ve spared him.

And just like that, the sun is shining overhead. The sound of childish activity in the distance, outside of the small bastion you’ve found in the woods. You can feel the gentle pressure of your knife against your back, and the soft bump of the protection charm you’d cast against the side of your foot.

When the bell rings, you leave Pug where he lays, taking your seat at the front of the class and trying to pay attention to your teacher as she attempts to teach an unsettled class algebra. Pug never comes, and more than once, she asks everyone if they’ve seen him. You shake you head amidst a series of denials.

That’s about the point where you realize what, exactly, you just did. The evening is tense, your night sleepless, and the next day, Pug still isn’t in class. No one really knows what happened; if the teacher does, she doesn’t say anything.

You spend the next few weeks trapped in the terror of just how much he knows, and every creak of floorboards outside your room is an angry man in a black cloak, come to take you to your pyre.

You’re a monster.

* * *

 


End file.
